on the banks of the wabash, far away
by hardlygolden
Summary: Pre-series, weechesters. January, 1994. New town, same old problems; and although John has been training his sons to be ready for anything, nothing could prepare them for what they will find here – or for what they stand to lose.
1. Huntington, Indiana

**on the banks of the Wabash, far away**

They were Sam Jones and Dean Jones and John Jones; here, in Huntington, Indiana. Even though when Dad had said "John Jones" to the motel clerk a few hours ago Dean had sniggered loudly and the motel clerk had looked momentarily confused; and Dad had glared at Dean, and then glared at Sam for good measure, even though Sam hadn't made a sound, hadn't even blinked. Dean thought he was so funny, picking 'Jones' in Indiana. He'd been planning that one ever since they drove across the border.

It was Sam's turn to pick their name next state.

Dad had come up with that game a few years ago; back when Sam had been sent home from school with a letter and a visit from a social worker, after he had started crying in class because he couldn't even remember his own name. Sam had been six; and he had been crying – and he was confused, but the school was wrong about the reason why. He wasn't confused about his own name – he _knew_ he was Sam Winchester, and his brother was Dean Winchester, and his Daddy was John Winchester and his mommy was in heaven – but he couldn't _tell_ the teacher any of that, because he knew that they were using a pretend name. He just couldn't remember which one it was this time.

So Dad had decided that it would be easier if Sam or Dean picked their name from now on, and that way they would have no excuse for forgetting it.

Sam used to think it was a fun game, but he soon ran out of ideas, because each name was someone else's really, not his.

Every time it was his turn, Dad would park the Impala in the motel parking lot and turn around and face Sam.

"Who are we today, Sam?"

Every time, Sam wanted to say _the Winchesters_ but he knew that wasn't allowed, so he used the second best thing – the surname of his best friend from whichever town they'd last lived in.

Dad never said anything about Sam's formula. He may not have even realised it was a formula. Because sometimes, it felt like Dad didn't even know what _grade_ Sam was in, let alone what his best friends name was.

Dean knew, though. Dean always knew.

Dean's names were a mix of stupid puns and pop-cultural references, usually a play on the name of the state itself: "Jones" in Indiana, or "Walker" in Texas. (And yeah, subtle was one of the few things Dean had never been accused of.)

Dean didn't take it seriously.

If it was Sam's turn to pick, they would be the Beaumonts because Danny Beaumont had been Sam's best friend for the three months they lived in Ohio; and Mrs Beaumont smelled like apple pie and cinnamon and Danny had two little sisters with pigtails and a dog named Rover and Mr Beaumont took a briefcase to work every morning and came home at six o'clock every night. Every single night. Except one night when Sam was sleeping over and Mr Beaumont was held up at work and he called to let his family know and Mrs Beaumont kept dinner warm for him on a plate until he got home. And he was late, but he was still home in time to kiss Danny goodnight.

So if it was Sam's turn to pick their names, it would have been Sam Beaumont and Dean Beaumont and John Beaumont checking in to room 23-A at the Sleep Easy Motel in Huntington, Indiana.

But it wasn't Sam's turn, so they were the Jones', because Dean had watched _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ on cable a few years ago and never quite got over it.

*

Dean wasn't sure what Dad was hunting, because Dad hadn't said anything more than, "I'll be home late, boys" and "Don't forget to salt the doors and windows," and "Keep the shotgun close," (except that one he only said to Dean).

Outside, there was a loud party going on down the street. When they had pulled into the motel a few hours ago, they had passed a group of pretty girls about Dean's age, standing on the corner. There was one girl who had brown braids that reached to her waist, and she was wearing a blue jacket the color of the sky.

Dean wondered idly if she would be at the party, wondered if he could sneak out without getting caught. He knew he could. Sam wouldn't tattle-tale, he grew out of that a few years ago, and Dean would be back well before Dad ever was.

But Dean had learnt his lesson in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin five years ago, and tonight he was not going anywhere.

Instead, he said "Brush your teeth, Sammy" and waited to hear the sound of running water before he reached for the remote and settled back to a night of sitcoms and black and white movies.

The music from the party pulsed through the thin walls of their motel room, and no matter how loud he turned the tinny volume of the tv up, he could still hear it, long after Sam was asleep.

*

John never said "Take care of Sammy". He didn't need to. Because ten years ago, he _gave _Sam to Dean, hurriedly passing sleepy-baby-warmth into chubby-toddler-arms and throughout the years Dean has never once let go. It started then, he knew, because that night was the night he said: "Take your brother outside as fast as you can, now Dean, go" and from that moment on Dean started running and never looked back, not once.

That November night was the end of everything and the beginning of everything else, and John has spent so long since reliving every second of that night; choking on smoke and loss and memory.

Dean turns fifteen in two weeks. He was constantly in the periphery of John's vision, dancing a steady orbit around Sam and John, a blur of perpetual motion and energy. On the surface he was a carefree teenager, always ready with a wise-crack, taking any opportunity to tease Sam - but even when he seemed relaxed he never fully let his guard down. He was always alert, always ready – always, always watching.

Sometimes Dean saw too much, and John knows that's another thing that's his fault – but he can't bring himself to feel too badly about it, not when he knows it is those instincts that one day could be the only thing keeping Dean alive, keeping Sammy alive. The one thing that could have kept _Mary_ alive – and perhaps it's true that John is a damned fool (and forty-nine other expletives, courtesy of the Gospel According to Bobby Singer), but no-one could ever accuse him of making the same mistake twice.

Problem is, he made a fresh one every time, and his supply was seemingly endless.

*

The heater in their motel room was broken, and it was freezing. Sam had made a makeshift cocoon out of the blankets from his and Dean's beds; and he lay between the covers trying to concentrate on the book he was reading. _A Wrinkle In Time_.

In classroom 4B, at Oakland Middle School, Ohio, his book report was due today; and he knew that somewhere, three hundred miles away, all his friends would be sitting in class. He would be there too, if Dad hadn't packed them up in such a hurry two days ago and sped out of town, chasing a new lead all the way to Indiana.

Sam's only ten, but he's been to more new schools than nearly any kid he knows. Any kid except Dean, that is.

He's never stayed at a school for more than a few months.

It's hard, keeping up with the work, because every school runs on a different schedule – sometimes he will arrive and have to sit through three weeks studying fractions, which he already learnt last month at his old school. Other times he will have missed out on learning stuff everyone else in the class already learnt, and have to spend a week catching up.

It's hard, moving around as much as they do – but Sam's a smart kid, all his teachers say so, and he takes school seriously. He's good at it – _understands _it – and he enjoys the satisfaction of learning, of getting the right answer, of figuring things out for himself.

He used to worry about transferring schools under an assumed name, but Dad said he'd take care of it, and it's never been a problem so far – Sam's transcript from his old school always arrives a few days after they arrive in town, with the details changed to match whatever name they're using this time around.

He never knew how Dad did it – although one time he overheard an argument his dad was having on the phone with someone – a man, it must have been, because Dad would _never_ talk like that to a lady – and Dad said "I don't care how hard it is, you get it done damnnit," and he'd reeled off the name of Sam and Dean's new school, and their new surname and slammed the phone down without even waiting for the guy on the other end to reply. And then Dad had sat there, staring at the phone and swiping his hand roughly across his eyes. "Jesus," he had said, to himself. And that probably shouldn't be one of Sam's favourite memories of his dad, but it was.

Sam thought sometimes that it would be easier to love his Dad if Dad would just stand still long enough for Sam to grip on and never let go.

*

John walked through the house, listening to the real estate agent prattle on about resale value – _in five years alone, this place will be worth _– and John tuned out, because he won't be here five years, won't be here five months.

But because it's expected, and because he wants this house, he nods along as the man – Ted Shelton, according to his business card – keeps talking about markets and economies and housing booms.

It's a nice house – a little run-down, but they've had worse; not far from the local school; big enough that Sam and Dean won't have to share a bedroom – and he knows Dean especially will appreciate that.

"You got kids?" Shelton asked.

"Yeah," John replied, "Two boys. Ten and fourteen."

Shelton smiled. "Boys are good. I always wanted a boy, but the missus just kept on having girls. Can't complain though – I've got three gorgeous daughters. But still, would be nice to have a son - a daughter is a treasure, but a son is a legacy, y'know?"

And John knows, he knows exactly.

He decided that maybe Shelton - with his cheap suit and his comb-over – wasn't so bad after all.

*

Dean's used to living out of motels – hell, it's practically how he spends every summer holidays; and plenty of weeks in between – but that doesn't mean he likes it.

So he's relieved when Dad announces that he's found a house they can rent.

Firstly, because that means they're staying put for awhile – which should make Sam happy at least.

And secondly, it's a nice feeling not living out of a duffle bag, not having to share a bed with Sam, not having to constantly be on the lookout, because the kind of motels they stay at aren't exactly the Hilton, and there were some sick fucks out there, so he could never let Sam out of his sight. Because Sam was only ten – still a little kid with floppy hair – but some perverts got off on that, and motels like these were exactly where they like to hang out.

So yeah, it was a relief when Dad announced that he'd found them a house.

*

It was Sam's job to get Dean up for school in the morning – which usually involved poking at the Dean-shaped mound of blankets until Dean's head emerged, and he grumbled 'gerraway' – and Sam did – heading to the shower.

It was winter and freezing, so he turned the shower on as soon as he stepped into the bathroom. It always took a few minutes for the hot water to kick in, so he didn't rush as he brushed his teeth and stared assessingly at his hair in the mirror. It probably needed a wash, but it was so cold this morning he decided he'd just wash it this afternoon after training. He stripped off his flannel pyjamas and finally stepped under the spray, which was by now at least lukewarm.

By the time he got out of the shower, Dean was up and puttering around the kitchen.

"You better not have used up all the hot water, bitch," Dean grumbled as he made Sam's lunch, cutting his sandwich in triangles straight down the middle – just the way Sam liked it.

Sam poked his tongue out as he stole some of Dean's toast.

"Where's Dad?" he asked.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Sam," Dean said, waggling his eyebrows at him. Sam had just taken a gulp of orange juice, and he snorted so hard that he started choking – because Dean was hardly the one to comment on table manners – Dean who had once crammed twelve marshmallows in his mouth, and then tried to sing 'Whiskey in the Jar' just because Sam had dared him to – and Dean must have been thinking the same thing, because he was laughing too, as he threw a dish towel at Sam's head. The dish towel missed, falling to the floor with a wet plop.

It wasn't until Dean had gone into the bathroom that Sam realised Dean had never answered his question.

He supposed it didn't matter, really. Not like knowing where Dad was would change the fact that he wasn't here, wasn't home.

It was weird – they moved so much, you'd think everything would be different, but even though they were in a new town, nothing had really changed.

The sounds of Dean singing in the shower drifted out from the bathroom. Dean actually had quite a good voice but most mornings he sang off-key on purpose, just to annoy Sam. Sam listened as Dean belted out some inane pop song, and he grinned in spite of himself.

Some things never changed, he knew that.

But some things do change. Sam was counting on that. Because, surely, at some point they had to settle down, right? So why not here? Why not Huntington, Indiana?

*

Dean had seen enough new schools to last him a lifetime; and it was seven-thirty on a Monday morning and Dean _really _did not want to go to school.

It wasn't because he was nervous, or dumb, or anything like that. It was because he just didn't get how school was relevant.

He didn't care about college. College was something other people did, not him. And it wasn't a self-esteem thing, like Miss Jacobs, the guidance counsellor at his last school, had seemed to think – always ambushing him with brightly-colored brochures and cheery pep-talks. He'd been glad to leave their school in Ohio behind, watching as it vanished into a cloud of dust behind the Impala's tires; even if leaving meant Sam sniffling and moping for a few days, because as much as Dean hated seeing Sam hurting and not being able to fix it, it was such a relief to get away from Miss Jacobs and her blinding optimism. Not that Dean wanted what she was selling – he didn't; but one day she had said something about "wouldn't his mom have wanted him to go to college?" and Dean had never punched a teacher before, never punched a _girl _before, but he'd been tempted, and that scared him.

It wasn't fair, bringing mom into it. That was hitting below the belt. And Miss Jacobs had apologised straight away, because she said she could see how "upset" he was, and he wasn't upset, he was angry, but he couldn't explain why and he didn't want to even if he could. He was done talking.

So leaving had been a relief, even if it meant he had to put up with Sam's moping for the next week or so. But really, what did Sam expect? It's not like they were the type of family to just settle down somewhere, with a dog and a white picket fence and a pocketful of dreams. As soon as they got to a town, Dean always knew that they would leave it – it was just a matter of when. That was something Sam never really seemed to comprehend, though, because he kept getting attached – couldn't help himself – and it was just getting worse as he got older.

Leaving was always harder on Sam than Dean, because Dean had learnt long ago not to care too much about the people in the towns they moved to – because they were transitory, bound to be left behind.

Dean sometimes wondered what it was like, being left behind.

It was his birthday next week – and thinking about his birthday always made him miss his mother. The memories he had of her had blurred and faded over time but he clung to them nonetheless. At least he had memories of her, however vague. Sam didn't have that, had just been a baby when Mom died, and so it was Dean's job to share his memories with Sam – filling in the gaping hole in Sam's life with every detail he could remember about Mom, and inventing the ones he couldn't.

Dean thought about the second-last memory he had of her – soft hair that tickled his cheek, the warmth in her eyes as she leaned in to kiss him goodnight, the laughter as she joked with Dad.

It was nicer than the last memory he had of her – just a glimpse – a white nightgown on the ceiling, a body burning. Dad said it had been four months before Dean would even talk, after. Dean didn't really remember much of those months immediately after the fire, but he took Dad's word for it.

Thinking about it now, he realised that, actually, he _did_ know how it felt to be left behind, and he also knew that he never wanted to feel that way again. It scared him, the thought of caring that much for someone. That's why he only cared that way about Dad and Sam – because Dad could take care of himself, and Dean could take care of Sam – and so they wouldn't leave him.

So that was settled, at least.

*

John had never had the patience for paperwork. Even now, he would only do the bare minimum of credit card scams – just enough to confirm whichever surname Sam or Dean had chosen for them this time around.

Because John was a mechanic and a soldier and his father's son, and it felt _wrong_ to just free-ride around America.

That wasn't what bothered him though. What bothered him was that he could feel himself getting used to it, rationalising it even. After all, he may not be John Jones of Indiana, but for every John Doe's identity he borrowed; he was saving Tom, Dick and Harry – so he figured in the cosmic sense, it all worked out. Maybe.

Besides, not too many garages take a man with only a couple of references, even if he does drive a sleek black beast of a car. They don't see the car – they see the two boys in the backseat, the circles under his eyes – and they know he's running. They're right – and they're wrong as well, because they think John is running away from something.

John Winchester has never run away from anything in his life.

He is running _towards_ something, in pursuit of whatever that thing was that took Mary, robbed him of his life, robbed Sam and Dean of their mother, their childhood, their birthright of normal.

*


	2. Settling

The first day at any new school was always the hardest. That's what Dean said, anyway, and Dean would know. Except it was Thursday now, and Sam was still finding it as hard as the first day.

The kids here had all grown up together, were already a tightly-knit unit. Sam didn't fit, had no place here.

It was lunch time, and Sam sat by himself at a picnic table, watching as some kids from his class kicked a soccer ball around on the concrete.

It was freezing, snow drifting lightly down in little flurries. Sam was wearing his jacket and his scarf and his woollen beanie and Dean's gloves, but he was still feeling the sharp bite of the cold wind as it whipped between the school buildings.

Sam had grown out of his gloves, and Dean said he would ask Dad to buy a new pair, but either Dean hadn't asked or Dad hadn't got around to it, because Sam hadn't seen any new gloves yet. Dean had given him his pair instead, because he said he didn't use the stupid things anyway. Sam knew that was probably a lie, but it was hard to argue with Dean when he grinned like that. He'd tried to protest, but Dean had just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, and refused to take no for an answer.

Any charitable feelings Sam might have had towards Dean were gone when he felt a sharp thwack to the side of his head. He jerked around and saw Dean standing behind him, smirking.

"Look at you, all by yourself," said Dean, shaking his head. "Shouldn't you be down there playing soccer?"

Sam shrugged. "Soccer's stupid," he said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You love soccer," he said, slowly. "You begged for weeks to join the team."

Sam shrugged again, hunching back further into the bench. "That was different," he hedged. He didn't want to explain – because he had never really loved soccer – not the way Dean thought he did. He enjoyed the game, sure, but it was the _idea_ of it that he loved more than anything. Soccer was noisy games with cheering families, a coach who shouted instructions, orders, but also praised you after a good game, and sometimes said "son" in a tone that sounded nothing like Dad. Soccer was Sam and the ball and the field and the team and there were rules – and everyone knew the rules, and everyone followed them, and it was just _easy_ and Sam could play along, same as everyone else – _better_ than everyone else, thanks to all the drills Dad always made him run after school.

But here in this new school, he didn't belong. Not yet. Maybe he would in a few weeks, but right now he was just that weird new kid, sitting alone by himself at the picnic table.

Not alone, he corrected himself. Dean was there.

Speaking of which: "Why _are_ you here, Dean?"

Dean settled down on the bench next to him, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His nose was red from the cold.

"Had a free period," Dean said, lightly. Which was probably true, but Sam heard the message behind the words – _and wanted to check on you_.

"Don't you have any friends to hang out with?" Sam said. It came out harsher than he intended, but he didn't need Dean constantly watching out for him, he was nearly eleven now, old enough to look out for himself.

Dean just tousled his hair with a bit more force than usual, and walked away – but he paused, and without turning around threw an apple at Sam. Sam wasn't expecting it, and it hit him squarely on the cheek. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, but all he could see was a bored teacher on duty. She wasn't even looking in his direction, eyes fixed wistfully on the door to the teacher's lounge.

Then he heard a snigger behind him, and he whipped around.

There was a boy standing there, about Sam's age. He had red hair, which was sticking out from under one of those hunting caps – with the ear-flaps and everything. It looked ridiculous. Dean would love a hat like that.

"I think you dropped your apple," said the boy, reaching down to pick it up and handed it to Sam.

Sam took the apple. It was already starting to bruise from where it had bounced off the concrete.

"Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it," said the boy, dropping down onto the seat and sprawling out. His actions unconsciously mirrored the exact position Dean had sat in a few minutes before.

"My name's Nate, by the way. Nate Myers," said the boy, Nate, and he smiled brightly at Sam. He was wearing braces, Sam realised – giant silver bands across his teeth that sparkled in the winter sun.

"Sam," Sam said.

"Sam Jones, I know," said Nate. "You're in my class."

"How come I haven't met you before?" said Sam, curious, because he was good at remembering faces; Dad was always stressing the importance of a good memory.

Nate grinned. "I've been away," he said. "Just got back last night. We were visiting my grandparents in Connecticut."

"Oh," said Sam. "I have a grandma in Wisconsin." He didn't, but for a few moments it felt like he did, he could picture her, with her cats and a rocking chair and the ugly woollen sweater that she would knit him every year for his birthday; and that Dean would tease him about but that he would wear even if Dean was right and it did sort of look like her cat had thrown up on it. And the sleeves would always be too long for his arms, because she was horrible at guessing sizes, but it would keep him warm, and he would wear it until it was ragged and thin, and then he'd keep it in his closet.

Sam wondered if he did have a grandma – somewhere. He'd have to ask Dean. Dean would know.

"Do you like soccer?" asked Nate, as they watched some boys from their class chasing after the ball, laughing as they unearthed it from the bank of snow it had rolled into.

Sam thought of afternoons practising in the park with Danny, Dean standing on the sidelines making ridiculous whistling noises – as if he could make up for Dad's absence in sheer volume - the coach taking the whole team out to the sundae parlour after they won their first game for the season. Sam wondered who had taken his place on the team, now he wasn't there anymore.

He supposed it didn't matter, really.

"No," he said. "I don't like soccer."

"Me neither," said Nate, face breaking into a wide grin. "You know, Sam, I think we're going to get along just fine."

Looking at him, with his red hair and braces and that stupid hat, Sam thought so too.

*

Dean knows that Sam's been craving normal since he knew what normal _was_, ever since he realised that their family _wasn't_.

When Sam was eight, he used to race home from school, tearing ahead of Dean. That was the year they lived in Colorado, and Sam and Dean's school was only three blocks from their apartment, and Dad let them go by themselves after the first day, although the first day he walked to school right alongside them, making sure Dean was paying attention and could remember the way home.

Dean did, of course, and Sam learnt it too – although he was never supposed to walk home without Dean, which was why Dean used to have to hurry to keep up with him when Sam went streaking ahead. Dean didn't want to be seen to be running after his little brother, but most afternoons, he had to jog to keep up with him.

Sam would burst through the door, and fling himself onto the faded couch as the theme song for _Leave it to Beaver _burst from their crappy black and white television set. And then after that came _The Brady Bunch_, which Sam watched with such intensity that it was actually a little creepy_. _And yeah, Dean thought Marsha was kind of hot – but he knew that wasn't why Sam obsessed over those sitcoms.

Dad would sit at the kitchen table, poring over his notes, occasionally looking up if there was a particularly loud burst of canned laughter from the television set. Dean would potter around the kitchen, making a peanut butter sandwich for Sammy, and then he'd wander out and sit next to Sam on the couch.

One day, Dad had been especially irritable, tired and recovering from a hunt gone wrong. He had been staring at the same page for the last twenty minutes. Beav must have said something funny, because everyone was laughing and suddenly Dad slammed his fist down so loud that even Sam turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Sam, would you turn that damn thing off?" he'd barked, and Sam had reached for the remote – but instead of turning it off, he just hit the mute button. See, in Sam's mind, that wasn't disobeying Dad – Dad wanted the sound gone, so Sam made the sound go away.

In Dad's mind, though, that was Sam directly defying his orders, so he had walked over and pulled the plug out from the wall. The television had made a fizzing sound and faded to grey.

Sam didn't say anything, just got up and walked to the room he shared with Dean. He'd sat down on the narrow cot bed and stared at his hands.

Dean had followed him to the room, but just ended up standing in the doorway, watching. Part of Dean wanted to go over there, because Sam just looked so small and unhappy – and for crying out loud, it was just a television show – but Sam was eight now, starting to shrug out of Dean's careless embraces.

Besides, Sam shouldn't be watching those stupid shows anyway. Those celluloid families weren't real. Nobody was that happy all the damn time – pearly-white teeth and glossy hair. No mom would ever be that apple-pie perfect.

Dean remembered how he had felt, standing there. He had wanted to shake Sam – to say: look around, me and Dad, we're your family and we're right here. This is what we've got and it's better than anything you've seen on television because it's _real_ and it's _ours_ but I need you to make it work, I can't do this without you.

The next afternoon, Sam turned the television back on. John didn't say a word.

Every afternoon after that, Dean would look at Sam and want to say something, explain it to him, but he never quite knew what words to use to show Sam – because this was _important_, and Dean didn't want to screw it up. Every afternoon, he still felt like he should say something, because if Sam didn't understand this now, he never would.

Of course, it wasn't long before they moved again, to some Podunk country town in the middle of Hicksville where they didn't get running water, let alone television reception.

There was a sentence that Dean's teacher back in Ohio had read them once, from a book by some old Russian guy – Tolstoy – his name was. Dean didn't remember the name of the book, but he did remember the opening sentence. "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Dean thought that was probably true, but he also knew that it wasn't as simple as that – and his family was messed up in ways most people couldn't begin to imagine. But 'messed up' was relative – and at least his Dad wasn't a drunk, or a deadbeat. He never hit his kids, or skipped out on them. They always had enough food, and a place to sleep. And most of all, they always had each other.

Sure, his family would never be the family it was before they lost mom. But that didn't mean they were stuck being unhappy forever. You had to make your own happiness, carpe the damn diem. He didn't tell Sam that, felt awkward putting it in words, so he tried to do what he always did – lead by example.

*

John watched as Sam and Dean ran laps around the house. They'd already done their usual drills – sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups –every sort of 'up' John could remember from basic training, and a few others he'd invented over the years just for the hell of it, and also because basic training was just that – basic – it wasn't exactly poltergeist hunting 101.

They ended with sparring – Sam against Dean. Dean had him pinned in a few minutes – although to Sam's credit, he made Dean work for it. In fairness, no matter how fit Sam was, Dean still had a good four years over him, with all the height, weight and experience advantages that implied, so although defeat was inevitable, the delay was admirable.

John didn't say that, though. Sam was a smart kid, he could do the math – should know that John wouldn't keep making him fight Dean if he didn't think that one day Sam _would _win.

The rules were always the same – Sam versus Dean, then winner versus John. Which meant, of course, that it always ended up Dean sparring with John.

Not that he never got to fight with Sam – however, those fights were unplanned; wielding words instead of blows, which always wound up hurting more, because Sam and John had never got the hang of pulling their punches when they were fighting one another.

Fighting with Dean was always easier – because the fights were always on the field rather than off it, rabbit punches and upper-cuts and Dean's fists packed more of a punch but they only bruised his skin. When he and Dean fought, they weren't fighting to hurt, they were fighting to win – as pure and simple as that.

"Can't keep up with your old man, huh?" John said, pumping his arms in the air and crowing with victory.

Dean just grinned. "I was holding back," he teased – which warranted a snort from Sam, who was collapsed on the grass a few feet away. John snorted too, but part of him wondered if Dean was telling the truth, whether Dean would always pull his punches, let him win - whether Dean was purposefully holding out on him.

He didn't think so, though. John knew Dean respected him enough to give him his best.

*

Dean still wasn't sure exactly what Dad was hunting – although that wasn't because his Dad didn't trust him. It was because even Dad wasn't sure what it was – just that there was _something_ going on.

Dad had been home when they'd got back from school this afternoon, but then he'd got a phone call and had left shortly after.

It must have been an important phone call, because he'd abandoned all his research – stacks of newspapers and diagrams, piles of musty old books. Dad had left them all sprawled out on the dining room table, in plain sight, so Dean didn't really think it was snooping if he read through some of them while Dad was out.

Still, half an hour later and Dean still had no idea what his Dad was after. It wasn't a ghost, that was for sure – or at least, not your average ghost. There were definitely some weird things going on, but the connections weren't clear.

Dad had highlighted one of the more recent articles – a cop who had got mauled by some kind of wild animal. There was a coroner's report clipped to it as well – which Dean was pretty sure Dad hadn't obtained legally – and he didn't understand much of the medical jargon, but he got enough to know the gist of it. The cop's heart had literally been ripped out of his chest. Which, if it had been a movie, would have actually been pretty cool. But this wasn't a movie, and the starkly coloured photographs didn't leave much to the imagination. Dean hurriedly shoved them underneath a newspaper. No need for Sam to see those- they'd give the kid nightmares for a week.

There were teeth marks and everything, which would fit with the whole wild animal theory – except it hadn't happened in the forest or anything, though – had happened in the guy's office – and there was no sign of any disturbance or a break-in. So Dean could see why Dad would be interested. This was definitely their kind of weird.

The attack had happened two days before they'd moved to Indiana. Dean supposed that was probably why they moved, that Dad was on the trail of this thing. It made sense.

He didn't know what the weather reports had to do with anything though – Dad had printed out pages and pages of climate reports, charts of weather changes for the region for the last fifty years.

This year was off the charts cold, with the coldest winter on record.

Dean wondered what that meant, but he knew Dad would figure it out, eventually. Dean just had to keep Sammy off his back while he did.

*


	3. Homecoming

It was three forty-three am, and the door shut behind John with a soft snick. He eased off his boots, sank down into the lounge chair with a sigh and reached for the table lamp.

He flicked it on; only to find Sam sitting in the chair opposite, staring back at him. Sam was wrapped in a blanket, but his feet were bare, toes poking out from underneath the coarse wool, and John cursed under his breath. It was freezing, and Sam was supposed to be up for school in a few hours. He should be asleep, not sitting here on the couch, pale and watchful. Dean was supposed to have made sure he was in bed hours ago – and, John corrected himself, Dean probably had, was probably asleep right now, just like Sam was supposed to be.

"Where were you?" Sam asked, and there was something new in his tone, an edge John wasn't familiar with.

"Out," John said, because he was the parent here, the father, and he didn't have a damn curfew, or any duty to explain himself to his ten year old son.

"You didn't leave a note," said Sam. "I woke up yesterday morning and you were gone. I tried to call you this afternoon, and you didn't answer."

John felt a sudden pang of guilt – his cell phone had been playing up, battery fizzing in and out all day – it had never really recovered from the EMF from that ghost in Arkansas. He should get around to getting it fixed, it's essential that the boys had a means of staying in contact with him. And maybe Sam had a right to be upset, because he should have left a note or something, but damnit, couldn't Sam just drop it for now?

They could fight it all out in the morning, that's fine, John was itching for a good go-around, and honestly, he was expecting it to be Sam to set him off; Sam with his insistence on knowing the details, the hows and the whys; Sam with his determination and stubbornness.

But there was something different tonight – an added desperation in Sam's tone when he said "You said you'd be home tonight. You promised," because there was something else there, something important, but nothing was so important that it couldn't wait a few hours, because John had been outdoors for too long, traipsing around in the snow searching for clues to a mystery he still can't solve. And maybe it was because he's realising that he's a crazy fool on a goddamn wild goose chase; or maybe it's just the cold; or the weary ache in each of his bones, but he could _feel_ his temper fraying, and he tried to reel it in but before he knew it he was towering over Sam, jerking him upright and shaking him by the shoulders.

"You have _no_ idea, son," he said, "the sacrifices I have made for you and your brother," and he stopped, paused, because Sam's eyes were staring back at him, so wide and _hurt_ and defiant, always so damned defiant. He felt Sam shivering beneath his fingers, tiny tremors, and he wasn't sure whether it's because he'd got himself so riled up, or whether Sam really was that cold. He raised his hand towards Sam's forehead and Sam flinched away. John tried to pretend that didn't hurt, because he would never ever hurt his son, his sons, and Sam knows that, but nights like tonight maybe Sam doesn't quite believe it, not when he was been waiting alone in the dark for hours, only to be yelled at. "Anyway, don't make out like you were abandoned. Dean was here the whole time."

Sam twisted, breaking John's grip on his shoulders, and glared at him, eyes smoldering beneath his too-long bangs. "Dean," he spat out, "is always here. That's not what this is about. You should have been here too."

"Well, then, you're going to have to explain it to me, Sam – because I don't understand what all this fuss is about."

Sam didn't look angry anymore. He looked sad and defeated, all the fight gone out of him, and John suddenly wanted to sit down and make everything right, talk it out, do anything so that Sam won't ever look at him like that again, like John isn't who he always thought he was, like John is a stranger, and someone that Sam really doesn't care to get to know better.

He could sense that he had somehow disappointed Sam, let him down in some deep and elemental way, but for the life of him, he can't figure out how or why, and for crying out loud, it's nearly four in the morning, and he's been up for thirty-eight hours and all he wants to do is go to sleep.

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. And Dean won't. So you'll have to figure it out yourself."

Sam turned and walked the few steps towards the hallway that led to his bedroom. At the doorway, he turned, and in a quieter voice said, "I'm glad you're okay."

John sat down heavily on the old rickety kitchen chair, and ran his hand through his hair, still reeling from the confrontation and trying to reason out why he had just received a first class guilt trip, courtesy of his youngest son. Of course, Sam's attitude was nothing new - Sam had been arguing with John practically since he learnt to talk – even as a toddler, he had always been asking questions.

Sam's favorite word had always been "Why?" and usually – thank goodness – the questions had been directed at Dean, but John had got enough of them to have a healthy dread for Sam's constant curiosity, his desire to _know_ every-damn-thing, to pull it apart and hold it up to the light until he understood.

It just wasn't practical – especially in their line of work. There were some things that they would never understand, because they didn't need to. John knew superstitions and rituals to ward off danger – knew that salt repelled ghosts, knew that holy water burned evil – he didn't need to know _why_, all he needed to know was that it _worked_.

But still, there had been something different about this exchange, an added barb, a silent accusation. Times like this, he wondered if he would ever understand his youngest son – who had just read him the riot act, and been carrying on like John was the world's lousiest father – but it was only when he opened up the paper lying on the table next to his chair, and read the date, that he started to think that this time maybe Sam had a point.

Because while he was traipsing all around the frozen backwoods of Indiana, his eldest son had gone from fourteen to fifteen without John even noticing.

*

Sam was sleepy, but he couldn't fall asleep straight away. He felt bad – not for what he'd said to Dad, because Dad still probably had no idea what he was talking about, and anyway, Dad deserved it.

No – Sam was sorry because he knew that he'd hurt Dean. That was part of the reason he'd waited up, snuck out of bed as soon as he knew Dean was asleep – because he knew he'd hurt Dean, and he wanted to make sure that he was _right_.

Dean had been so understanding - _Dad would be here if he could_ - so stubborn – _it's not like he's forgotten, Sam, he doesn't just forget things_– and acting so blasé about it – _who cares, anyway - _and Sam hated having to be annoyed for Dean, but Dean never got annoyed at Dad, at least not in any way that Sam ever saw.

It wasn't right, letting Dad get away with this kind of crap, it wasn't fair, and Dean was acting like he didn't care, but Sam knew he did care, deep down inside, because Sam would care if it was him, even if Dean acted like he didn't.

So Sam had to care enough for both of them, fight enough for both of them. Even if it meant fighting Dad, fighting a one-sided battle because Dad didn't know what they were even fighting about.

Sam hoped Dad was having trouble falling asleep too.

*

Dean woke up the next morning to the smell of pancakes. That wasn't what got him out of bed though – because pancakes meant someone cooking in the kitchen, and Dean had waited up until one-thirty this morning, with no sign of Dad, so if Dad was home he was no doubt fast asleep – which meant Sam must be in the kitchen, using the stovetop – something he knew he wasn't allowed to do by himself.

Dad was standing in the kitchen, frying pancakes over the tiny stove, and when Dean burst in, Dad turned around and smiled at him.

"Dad!" he said, and then tried to tone down the surprise and excitement he heard in his own voice, so he didn't sound like a little kid, like Sam.

There were shadows under Dad's eyes, and stubble on his chin but he was _there_. "Sorry I missed your birthday, bud," he said. "Got tied up on a hunt."

Dean shrugged his shoulders dismissively – because it was _fine_, Dad was home now so everything was fine.

And when Sam stumbled out of bed a few minutes later – which was weird, actually, because Sam was usually the one waking Dean up – Dean stuck out a leg to trip him as he walked past – and he nearly would have tumbled over headfirst onto the floor if Dean hadn't relented and reached out a hand to steady him at the last second. That was Dean's way of saying _I told you so_ but Dean was gracious in victory, so he didn't let Sam face-plant onto the cracked linoleum floor.

And when Sam glared at him, Dean just smirked. Because he knew Dad wouldn't have forgotten his birthday, no matter what Sam had said last night.

Sometimes, Sam just didn't give Dad enough credit.

*

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	4. Questions

John stopped by the local mechanics that afternoon. The owner's name was Carl Addison. He was a tall man with a gruff laugh, who looked nothing like Mike Gunther, which was just fine by John – because in Lawrence, Kansas all those years ago, Mike Gunther had tried to take his boys away from him. And after John had left, he had filed a fuckin' _missing persons_ report on them - which was one of the reasons John never went by his real name, now, because Mike Gunther had been the first person to try to take his boys away from him, but he sure as hell wasn't the last.

John had met Carl on his second day in town, right after he'd scouted around to find the best school for the boys, and he'd realised he didn't have enough cash to buy groceries, let alone new school books and the thousand and one other things they needed. And he could get Bobby's cousin to get him some fake ID, a couple of fake credit cards, sure, but that took time – took days, and John had boys and boys needed to eat.

So John had met Carl, and he'd never been more glad that he kept the Impala in mint-condition, because after Carl saw the Impala John knew that he was in, that he'd passed some kind of test he hadn't realised he was sitting, which was good, because John hated tests, made him nervous.

Carl had offered him work – part-time, just casual – Carl actually apologised that he could only offer John part-time work, probably because he took one look at John's worn jeans and his faded flannel shirt and decided John was down on his luck and needed money pretty bad – and maybe that thought should sting more than it did, because there was a time when John was too proud to accept charity, or pity, or kindness. He's still proud, too stiff-necked – but he'd also learnt to take what he can get, especially if it means food on the table and gas in the car.

Besides, he could only work part-time anyway, didn't have time to be tied down to a full-time job, because he hadn't forgotten the reason he'd come here in the first place.

Because there was _something_ in Indiana, something John was here to hunt. It was only January, but 1994 had gotten off to a shaky start – cold spells all along the north-east Coast, and Indiana was the epicentre of it all, somehow. John had been collecting weather reports and there were too many strange things going on to be a coincidence. Throughout the years, John had learnt to trust his instincts, and his instincts were ringing little alarm bells all over the state of Indiana.

So when he heard about that cop getting mauled by a wild animal, those little alarm bells became sirens became deafening. That was the reason he'd come to Huntington, Indiana.

*

Sam was sitting further back in the classroom than usual, laughing at a picture Nate had drawn in his notebook, so he was only half-listening to what Mrs Wesley was saying as she explained about their project which was due next week. That was his first mistake, in retrospect.

His second mistake was laughing loud enough that she heard him – actually stopped what she was doing and came over, made him give the notebook to her while she stood there and read it.

Sam squirmed, because he _liked_ Mrs Wesley, and he didn't like people being mad at him, he didn't like it at all. And she would be mad, because it was a funny picture but he could see why she wouldn't think it was funny – not when it was of her, and not with what Nate had written on the speech bubble coming out of her mouth. And sure, she wasn't skinny by any stretch of the imagination, but she wasn't fat either, and her nose didn't look like that. And yeah, Sam could understand why that picture would be offensive, and why he was probably about to get detention, for the first time ever.

She didn't say anything, though, just put the notebook down on the table, and smiled – but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and Sam felt bad even though he wasn't in trouble, because even though she wasn't punishing him didn't mean he wasn't guilty.

Of course, once she handed out the assignment sheets and Sam actually read it, he realised that maybe he didn't like Mrs Wesley that much after all, that maybe he didn't like her at all.

*

They were walking home from school, and Dean could tell that Sam was trying to work up the nerve to ask him about something – which was weird, because Sam didn't usually put much thought into what he was about to say next – guess it wouldn't be practical, with how much the kid talked.

Sam was always rattling on about what happened in class, what he'd read that day, who his new friends were, what their families were like and he said I can come over anytime and his mom will make us cookies, can I go, Dean, huh, can I?

"Dean, do we have a family?"

"Of course we do, jerkface. You, me, Dad. We're a family."

Sam scrunched up his nose. "You know what I mean," he said. "A _real_ family – with grandmas and grandpas and uncles and aunts and cousins and stuff."

Dean always hated when Sammy got like this – because Sam was too smart, too observant, and he was always reaching for what he couldn't have. And Dean would give Sam anything, except what Sam was asking wasn't Dean's to give, because Dean couldn't just pull a family out of thin air for Sam, it didn't work like that. So Dean did what he always did, did the best he could, made do and tried to convince Sam to do the same.

"We got Uncle Bobby," Dean reminded him. "And Pastor Jim."

Sam sighed, scuffing his feet against the pavement. He needed new shoes, Dean noted absently, reminding himself to mention it to Dad.

"That's not what I meant," Sam said.

"I know what you meant," Dean said, because he did, he knew exactly what Sam had meant. "But Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim – you're family to them. So why don't you think about that, for a minute, instead of acting like you're poor orphan Annie, all alone in the world?"

Sam bit his lip, so Dean knew that he was at least thinking about what Dean had said, because that was the thing about Sam, he always had to think things out for himself. It used to drive Dean crazy, that Sam wouldn't just take his word for things, had to know _why_ and _how come_ and _where's Dad_ but now he's just come to accept that that's how Sam is, that's how Sam's brain works. Sam needed to figure things out for himself, and Dean's proud of that, in a way, because it means Sam knows that you can't take things for granted, that seeing isn't always believing because sometimes you can't even trust your own eyes – that sometimes all you have is your own mind, and sometimes not even that.

But something about this whole conversation was nagging at him, because there's always something that sets Sam off, always some reason that he asks the question in the first place.

"Anyway, why do you want to know?" asked Dean.

Sam shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Just wondering," he said.

He was silent the whole way back to the house.

*

John still didn't know what he was hunting. He'd thought at first that it was some sort of water spirit – what with the cold snap, but he'd talked to Bobby and Bobby had said "Sometimes cold weather is just cold weather," and John didn't have to see him to know that Bobby was shaking his head in that irritating way of his.

And then there came the news that that cop had been mauled, and so John thought maybe it was a black dog, because that would fit, it _would_, but he'd been traipsing through the woods for the last few days, with no sign of a black dog, and the only thing he'd seen was much more of the Indiana state forest than he'd ever wanted to.

There was something supernatural going on here though, he could feel it, and he wasn't going to give up until he found it. Because John was not the type of man to give up, not without a fight.

*

Sam scrunched the homework assignment into a ball and tossed it onto the table. Two minutes later, he was smoothing it out again, but the question was still exactly the same, hadn't changed, and he didn't know what he'd expected.

He hated Mrs Wesley, and he hated the stupid homework assignment. It wasn't that Sam couldn't answer the question, because it was something that he thought about everyday, thought about more and more in each new town they moved to.

He couldn't even ask Dean or Dad for help, because he already knew what they'd say, and it was because his answer _wasn't _the same that he couldn't bring himself to write it down.

He knew the answer, his answer, but writing it down would make it real. Dad had taught him that, because there was power in words, and saying something and believing something came hand in hand, and he wasn't ready for that, not yet.

*

Dean was doing dishes – not much to wash up, to be honest, just a few plates, cups and Dad's chipped coffee mug. They usually got take-out, because Dad was awesome at barbequing and not much else; and Sam and Dean basically subsisted off Lucky Charms and toast and mac and cheese, or pretty much anything that could be microwaved or delivered to their door.

Dean worried sometimes that Sam wasn't getting enough vitamins or something like that, because he'd slept through most of health class in school, but he knew that vitamins and vegetables and things like that were important. So he tried to always make sure that Sam got some fruit or vegetables into him somehow. An apple a day, and all that.

There were still three slices of pizza in the fridge, and a half-empty carton of milk. Dean reminded himself that he needed to go shopping tomorrow on the way home from school. There were Cheerios in the cupboard they could have for breakfast, and he had enough cash in his wallet that Sam could buy lunch from school tomorrow, and still have enough for groceries.

Dean put the pizza in the microwave to warm up, and then he walked over to stand next to Sam's chair.

Sam was spread out at the kitchen table, books and papers covering the entire surface. He had planted himself there ever since they got home and hadn't moved since, and he had that little crease on his forehead that meant he was thinking too much. "What'cha working on, Sammy?" asked Dean, tousling his hair the way he knew Sam hated.

Sam hunched further over his paper. "Homework," he said. Which confused Dean, because if it was homework, why was he being so secretive about it? Usually Sam could not shut up about his homework – whether he was learning about the solar system, earthquakes or pandas – Dean ended up learning about them as well, whether he wanted to or not.

Still, it was sort of fun seeing how excited Sam got about geeky facts, so it actually kind of hurt that Sam didn't want to tell him what he was working on.

Not that he'd been doing much working – that was the other thing that was bothering Dean. Because for the past half hour, while Dean had been puttering around the kitchen, Sam hadn't written a single word, just sat there frowning and chewing his pencil.

*

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	5. Accidents

It had been Dean's birthday on Monday, and today was Wednesday, and Sam hadn't gotten him _anything. _Sam felt really bad – but when would he have time? It's not like Dad was going to take him shopping, he was so busy lately, either asleep or working at the garage or out – and when he was home, he was always hunched over his research. Sam didn't want to bother him, but he also needed to get Dean a present. He was explaining this to Nate at school, and Nate grinned at him. "Mom will take us to the mall after school this afternoon," he said.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I'm not supposed to go anywhere without Dean."

"Don't tell him," Nate said. "He can't get mad if you have a present to give him – which you will, because we'll buy it this afternoon. Although don't spend all your money," Nate teased, "It's my birthday on Tuesday."

Sam shoved him lightly on the shoulder.

"I can't buy your present when you're there," he said.

"I'm just saying," said Nate, airily.

As soon as school let out, Sam and Nate slipped out the back entrance to the parking lot out back where Nate's mom always picked him up. Nate explained what Sam needed, and Mrs Myers turned around and smiled at him. "That's not a problem at all," she said. "I have some groceries to get, so you boys can just look around while I do that."

They drove out of the school parking lot. As they pulled away from the school, Sam caught a glimpse of Dean standing at the front steps. Sam felt guilty, but determined. Dean would be worried, sure, but as soon as he saw the present he'd forgive Sam.

*

Dean had been waiting for Sam for fifteen minutes, watching kids Sam's age file past in chattering crowds. No sign of Sam. Dean tried to push down the sharp coil of worry, and walked to Sam's classroom. Perhaps Sam had detention? Dean snorted at the thought. That would be awesome. He could tease Sam about that forever, literally.

He knocked on the door of Sam's classroom, and Sam's teacher, Mrs Wesley, opened it. She looked harried – a curl of stray red hair escaping her tight bun. "Yes," she said. "Can I help you?"

"My name's Dean," Dean said. "My brother Sam's in your class."

Her face suddenly lit up. "Sam!" she said. "Sam is one of my best students, such a good boy," and Dean would have been amused, because every one of Sam's teachers always said that, but he was too distracted to really enjoy her comment, because he was scanning the classroom, and there was no sign of Sam.

"See," Dean continued, "I was waiting for Sam outside, and he hasn't come out yet."

She frowned. "That's odd. He left with Nate as soon as the bell rang."

"Nate, huh," said Dean. Sam had been talking about Nate for the last few weeks – seemed the two of them had really hit it off. "I'll go outside, have another look. Thanks for your help."

Dean was fuming as he walked out of the classroom. Sounded like Sam thought it would be a joke to skip out on Dean, get him worried for no reason except that Sam thought it would be funny. Well, two could play at that game.

Dean was going to go straight home, and when Sam came home, Dean was going to let him have it. Dean didn't want to drag Dad into this, but he would if he had to, because Sam knew better than this, damnit.

*

Sam was on his way back from the mall, Nate next to him in the backseat, talking excitedly about an action figure they'd seen at the toy store. It had been a good trip – Sam had found a present for Dean, and even got himself something – a new postcard for his collection. Every state they lived in, he bought a postcard. It was his way of marking time, saying _I was here_.

He pulled the postcard out of the bag to look at it again and then the brakes squealed and Sam felt himself fly forward, felt the shock of pain as his head collided with the pane of glass in the window, felt the warmth of blood on his forehead, the sharp pain radiating up his left arm.

It all happened in an instant.

"Nate? Sam? Are you boys alright?" asked Mrs Myers. She sat in the driver's seat, hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles had turned white. She didn't turn around, and Sam wondered if it was because she was too scared of what she might see when she did.

"I'm okay," said Sam, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Dean was going to _freak_. And his arm felt like it could be broken, which meant no proper training for the next six weeks. Dad was going to _kill_ him. Dean, too.

Nate stirred next to him, and let out a small groan. The sound was enough to make Mrs Myers overcome her obvious fear, and she whipped around.

"Boys? Are you alright?" she said, even though Sam had already answered her; already said he was okay. She glanced briefly at him, and then her focus was on Nate again.

"Nate, honey, can you open your eyes for me?" she said. Nate opened his eyes, blinked and looked around the car, clearly trying to see what had happened. Mrs Myers watched him anxiously, and Sam was watching her, so he saw the look of shock on her face when Nate started laughing.

"We were in a car crash! Dude, that's so awesome!" and then Mrs Myers started crying, and Sam didn't know whether he was supposed to reassure her, or high-five Nate, who was babbling with excitement.

He ended up doing neither, just sitting in the car. After repeated assurances from Nate that he was okay, Mrs Myers finally opened her car door.

Sam stared out the cracked windscreen. An old Ford was crumpled up against the front of their car – and the driver was slumped against the wheel. He wasn't moving. Sam didn't even think he was breathing.

A small crowd had gathered – a couple of passing motorists had pulled to a stop, Mrs Myers was using someone's cell phone to call for an ambulance.

Sam stayed sitting in the car until the ambulance pulled up, and the paramedics scrambled out. One of them rushed over to the man in the Ford, while the other walked with Mrs Myers to the car where Nate and Sam where.

The paramedic opened the front door and leaned in. "Are you alright?" she asked. She was a short blonde woman with spiky hair. Her badge said "Kate Rigby, EMT".

"We're fine," Nate said, and Sam nodded.

Kate peered in closer. "What's your name, kid?" she said, pointing at Sam.

"Sam," he said.

"Sam, can you get out of the car for me? I need to take a look at that arm."

Nate slid out of the car, and Sam followed.

He held out his arm, wincing at the movement.

Kate looked at him for a long moment, and then smiled gently at him. "I think you're going to have to come back to the hospital with me, Sam," she said.

Sam sighed.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" she said, pulling out her cell phone.

*

Dean was getting mad. It had been _two hours_ and Sam knew better than this, and he knew that Sam was probably just at Nate's house but any longer and Dean was going to have to go over there and look for him, and he didn't know Nate's number or anything.

That was when the phone rang, and Dean heard Sam's voice on the other end of the line, with a hitch of pain that shouldn't ever be there, and Dean said "Calm down, what happened, tell me where you are" and he listened and then he scribbled a brief note for Dad and then he was running out the door, headed for the hospital.

*

John pushed open the glass doors, and stepped up to the reception desk. "John Jones," he said. "I'm here for my son Sam. Where is he?"

The nurse looked confused, peering up at him over the top of her glasses. "When was he admitted?" she asked.

John slammed both hands down on the counter in frustration. "I'm not sure. My eldest son, Dean, left me a note saying there'd been an accident and Sam was hurt. So where the hell is he?"

"Sir, you're going to have to calm down," she said, half-rising from her chair.

"Dad!" said Dean, appearing from around the corner; and John was so relieved to see him, because Dean was smiling that sheepish grin, and so Sam mustn't have been hurt too bad, otherwise Dean would never leave his side, not for a second.

"What happened?" John asked – and it must have come out sharper than he intended, because Dean's sheepish grin disappeared, and his face became blank.

"Sam was on his way back from the mall with Mrs Myers – his friend Nate's mom. At the intersection on the corner of Henderson, some idiot ran a red light and slammed into them," Dean reeled off, tripping over his words. "Sam's okay – busted his arm, though. Doctors looking at it now."

John leant against the hospital wall. "But he's okay," he said.

"Yeah Dad, he's okay." Dean rested a hand on his sleeve in reassurance, but John shook it off, because now he was angry.

"Dean – why didn't you call me?"

Dean didn't quite meet his eyes, looked instead to the wall behind John, as if it held all the answers. "Didn't want to worry you," he said, and paused, because that wasn't the whole truth, and they both knew it.

John let it slide, though. Sam was okay.

*

Sam sat on the hospital bed, swinging his legs as he waited for the doctor. The nurse had said he would be back in a few minutes, but it had been almost twenty minutes.

He supposed it was a big hospital. There was probably a lot of other sick people here – people with something _way_ worse than a broken arm.

Still, he was surprised Dean wasn't back yet – because Dean said that he would be back in a few minutes, and Dean didn't have a whole hospital of people to take care of – he just had Sam.

Dean was probably waiting for Dad, Sam realised. He hoped Dad wouldn't be too mad – he didn't _think_ he would be, because the more he thought about it, it wasn't his fault that his arm was broken. It wasn't even Mrs Myers fault, because it's not like she'd got crashed into on purpose.

He hoped Dean wasn't mad – because Sam hated when Dean was mad at him, and Sam had skipped out on Dean after school – which Dad might blame Dean for. Even thought it wasn't Dean's fault that Sam had wound up sitting in a hospital room, cradling a broken arm.

If it was anyone's fault, it was that man who had suddenly lost control of his car and careened into them.

*

"Did you hear about that guy they brought in?"

John wasn't really paying attention, sitting in a corner near the nurses' station, trying to fill out a mountain of paper work – which was ridiculous, nobody needed this many forms just to set a broken arm. John didn't remember having to fill out this many forms when Mary had been around – although that was probably because she always filled them out.

"What guy?" the nurse asked.

"The one from that pile-up on Henderson," and John started paying real close attention, "that driver that ran the red light."

"Yeah, what about him? Didn't they decide it was a stroke?"

"That was before they pulled him out of the car," said the first nurse, with the air of someone revealing a titillating secret.

The other nurse was intrigued, and John was too, despite himself.

"Ain't no stroke I've ever seen that tore a man's ankle right off," she continued. "The EMT told me it looked like a wild animal or something. That man didn't run the red light because he had a stroke – he ran the red light because his foot was bitten off."

"But what happened?" asked the nurse. "Where was the foot?"

"That's the thing," said the other, solemnly. "It wasn't in the car. But there was so much blood that the medics said it had to have happened pretty much instantly. They just don't know _what_ happened."

They walked away, tut-tutting about the mysteriousness of it all, and John was more confused than ever, and crawling with unease, because that wasn't a black dog, not at all – but it wasn't anything normal either. Nothing _fit_.

But first things first, one thing at a time, and somewhere in this hospital his sons were waiting. John sat back and tried to concentrate on the form, because the sooner he got through that, the sooner he could get his boys home.

*

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	6. Conversations

The bell rang, and all the kids in Sam's class started scraping their chairs on the floor as they started packing up their books, their desks, ready to head home for the afternoon.

Sam was packing up too, because he had to meet Dean outside and Dean didn't like it when he was late. Which was probably fair enough, considering that it had only been a few days ago that Sam had run off without telling Dean. _And look how well that that had turned out_, Sam thought, rubbing his cast.

"Sam? Can you stay back for a few minutes please?" asked Mrs Wesley. She was holding his assignment. This was not good.

"You'd tell me, if something was going on at home, wouldn't you Sam?" asked Mrs Wesley.

Sam nodded, cautiously.

"It's just – " she paused. "Your arm is broken," and Sam must have given her a look that said – _duh _– because she flushed, and said "And I know you said it was a car accident,"

"It _was_ a car accident," Sam said, slowly. "Ask Nate. He was there."

Mrs Wesley looked a bit confused. "Oh," she said. "I didn't realise. It's just – Sam, I worry about you. You're so quiet, and you don't seem to spend much time with the other children,"

"I spend time with Nate," Sam said, and there was a plea in his voice.

"Yes," she said, smiling, "you do. I know it's hard, changing schools. And I'm glad you've found a friend here."

She paused, and bit her lip. "You know I'm your friend, too, right?" she said. _No you're not_, Sam thought, _you're my teacher_.

She laughed. "I know, you're probably thinking I'm your teacher, not your friend," and this time it was Sam that was blushing, but she continued "I just want you to know that you can tell me anything. Just like you tell Nate. You know, if something's wrong, if someone's hurting you," and Sam suddenly felt scared, because he got it now, he knew where this is going.

"No-one's hurting me," he said. "I'm not hurt."

"Sam," she said, ever so gently, "Your arm is _broken_."

"Yeah," he spat back. "Broken in a car accident."

"You expect me to believe that, I suppose. Just like you expect me to believe that you got that bruise on your arm last week from falling down the stairs."

Sam stared at her. "But I did!" He actually had, that time. Sometimes he did have suspicious looking bruises, cuts and scrapes from wrestling with Dean, or from Dad's training, but the bruise from last week had been an honest accident – just misjudged a step and tumbled over. Dean had laughed, and helped him up, and that had been that.

He wasn't hiding anything.

Not about that, anyway. But she wasn't convinced, he could tell by the way she reached out and grabbed his hand, holding on tight. She looked as if she was about to cry.

"I have to go," he said. "Dean's waiting for me."

"Sam," she said. "I can't let you go. You're the best student in my class, and so when you hand in a blank piece of paper instead of your assignment, I need to know why – and the only thing I can think of was that for some reason you couldn't answer the assignment question."

But Sam was already pulling away, heading for the door.

*

Dean didn't know why Sam was in such a bad mood. Something must have happened at school – maybe a fight with Nate? – or maybe his arm was hurting, but Sam didn't want to talk about it, and Dean was tired of trying to make him talk, or getting him to take painkillers, so he just left it.

If Sam wanted anything, he knew where to find him.

Sam had come home, bypassed the tv completely and made a beeline for his room, slamming the door shut so hard that Dean was worried the noise would wake Dad, who was still asleep – which meant that he must have hunted all last night and then worked all morning at the garage. Which meant the man was entitled to a sleep free from banging doors.

Turns out it wasn't Sam's door slamming that woke Dad up though; because someone was ringing the front doorbell, which was loud as anything, playing some jazzed up version of _It's a Small World_ and there was no way on earth Dad could sleep through that. Dean sighed and got up to open the door.

*

John had woken up as soon as that damned doorbell rang, although he was so tired it took him a few seconds to realise that's what the sound was. He was too tired to get out of bed to investigate, figuring Dean could handle it, so when Dean came to his door looking sheepish and serious all at once, he groaned – quietly – because Dean looked guilty enough.

"Who is it, son?" he asked.

"It's Mrs Wesley," Dean said, lowering his voice. When he saw the look of total incomprehension on John's face, he elaborated. "Sam's teacher. She said she needs to see you."

John sighed and sat up, running his hands through his hair. He peered into the mirror – he hadn't shaved since yesterday morning, and it showed. He was wearing an old wifebeater and a pair of frayed jeans, and there was a swipe of grease across his cheek.

He wasn't dressing up for a teacher, especially one who came unannounced.

He opened the door to his bedroom and found Mrs Wesley standing in the hallway, staring around the rooms in distaste – and he was thankful that she hadn't come over yesterday, when he'd had all his weaponry piled up on the kitchen table. Small mercies, he decided.

"Mr Jones," she said, stepping forward to shake his hand. She had a firm handshake, and her face was serious when she said, "We need to talk about Sam."

"What's he done?" John rumbled, because Sam was a good kid, he knew that, but that didn't warrant a home visit, unannounced and uninvited.

"It's what he hasn't done," she said. "Mr Jones, Sam did not hand in his assignment yesterday. Well, he did hand it in, but it was blank. He didn't even try to answer the question."

John was losing his patience fast. "I'm sure plenty of kids don't hand their assignments in. Do they get home visits too?"

She flushed with embarrassment. "No, it's not just about the assignment. Well, it is, I just – I worry that the question upset him, for some reason. I'm not sure. It's just something we've been doing, we're studying the United Nations this term, and you know they appointed 1994 the International Year of the Family and so I thought I'd get each student to write a page on what family means to them…" she trailed off, realising she was rambling.

John was staring at her.

"And… I'm sorry, it's just I really do care for Sam, he's such a nice boy, and I just started to worry that maybe there was some sort of trouble at home," she said.

John lit up with anger at what she was implying. "I would never hurt Sam," he said, and she started stammering – John hated people who stammered – saying that she wasn't implying that, not at all – but she knew Sam had an older brother, would his older brother ever hurt him?

And John wanted to laugh, wanted to throw her out of his house for coming here and implying things like that – but at the same time, he had to admire her, and he knew that the reason she did it was because she cared for Sam, and he couldn't blame anyone for that – was obscurely grateful, because Sam needed people to care for him.

Instead, he assured her that Dean would never hurt Sam. He didn't say that Dean would rather cut his own arm off than hurt Sam – not because it wasn't true, but because it was something she didn't need to know, although she'd probably dismiss it as a parent's exaggeration. It wasn't, but that wasn't any of her business.

He ushered her out, with a few suggestions about society being what it was, perhaps family might be a sensitive topic for a lot of kids?

And when he shut the door, Dean was leaning against the hallway, staring at the front door Mrs Wesley had just exited out of.

"Sorry about that, Dad," he said.

"Tell Sam we can't afford him drawing any more attention to us. There's no need for any of his dramatics."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, and he headed for Sam's room.

International Year of the Family, my ass, thought John. 1994 was shaping up to be a stellar year so far – mostly due to Sam's attitude. Perhaps part of the reason that Sam's constant complaints and arguments got to John was because they hit too close to home, struck a nerve. Because Sam had a point – there _was _normal, and this life sure as hell wasn't it.

John wanted to explain to Sam that they didn't have any options, wanted to apologise for setting him on this path before he was old enough to talk. He wanted to tell Sam he was just doing what every father would do – just wanted what was best for his kid, wanted his kid to be safe; except most fathers didn't know what John knew – that there was no such thing as safe – the closest thing to safe was prepared, and he had to prepare Sam.

Mostly, he just wanted Sam to survive.

*

"I came here looking for an ice spirit of some kind. But then after the maulings, I started looking for a black dog," John said, thinking out loud as he paced back and forth across the motel room. Bobby made a noncommittal noise, so John continued, "but it's not, it can't be. Nothing fits, Bobby."

John sank heavily onto his bed, feeling the mattress groan underneath his weight. He rested his head on his palm, as the other hand cupped the phone to his ear like a lifeline.

"I just don't understand it, Bobby," John said, and he hated that he was almost pleading with Bobby for answers, but John was at his wits end, and he was tired of doing this alone.

Seemed like ever since he got here, he'd been hitting dead end after dead end. Mary had always teased him, calling him thick-skulled and thin-skinned, and maybe he was but there was a limit to how many walls a man could bounce off without giving up or losing himself in the process, and he could feel himself drawing perilously close to that limit with every false hope, every wild goose chase, every shred of his tattered faith. He had the boys to live for, he knew that. On his good days, he suspected that was the only thing keeping him sane.

On his bad days, he knew it for sure.

The boys were asleep now, and that was the only reason John was keeping his voice down, as much as he wanted to yell at Bobby, shake him like one of Sammy's old toys until the answer rattled out - because Bobby was a stubborn old codger, stubborner than John even, and perhaps they were too much alike because Bobby drove John batshit crazy sometimes, with how long it took him to get to the point.

Bobby's voice came crackling down the tinny phone line – the snow storm outside was wreaking havoc with the connection – so all John could make out was a phrase every now and then "have you…." and "…reports of some" and then - "John? John? Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he said. "I can hear you now. The storm's getting closer, though, so it could drop out any second."

"Alright, alright," Bobby groused. "Well, I've already told you all the important bits – should be simple enough so even you can wrap your dumbass head around it. Looks like you've got yourself a -" and then static and white noise as the line went dead, and John swore loudly, slamming the phone down. Damnit.

And then he checked himself, wandering past the boys' bedrooms to see if the sudden noise had woken them.

He checked Dean first. Dean was lying motionless under the covers – which didn't necessarily mean anything – Dean was a light sleeper. John didn't really care if Dean had overheard his conversation with Bobby– he didn't have any secrets from Dean, only things he preferred Dean didn't find out just yet - because damnit the boy was only fifteen – just a kid, but even though John knew he was just a kid that didn't mean he wasn't training him for a war.

Sam, on the other hand – if Dean was just a kid, then Sam was just a baby – and he looked impossibly young as he lay curled up under the blankets. John and Dean had a mutual pact between them, which they had never really spoken out loud, because they'd never really needed to. _Protect Sam_. Even if that meant keeping him in the dark for a little while longer. Hell, it had worked until the kid was eight – and hadn't that been a Christmas to remember?

John had spent Christmas day 1991 hiking twelve miles with a dislocated shoulder, because on his way back from dispatching a poltergeist, the Impala had broken down in some hick town in the middle of nowhere. And hadn't that been a holly jolly Christmas treat, to arrive home Christmas night and see Dean flaked out on the couch, and Sam sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching John's journal to his chest – and how he'd gotten the damn thing out of John's duffel bag without him noticing, John would never know.

"Samuel Winchester, what the hell are you doing with that?" John had barked out before he'd even finished closing the door all the way. Dean had startled awake, and the relief on seeing John home was quickly swept away by guilt as he wouldn't meet John's eyes.

And John had suspected it from the moment he'd seen Sam with the journal, and it's not like he'd been planning to keep it a secret forever, he _couldn't_, it had been getting harder and harder as Sam was growing increasingly curious and refusing to settle for easy answers (and John was fast running out of those) and in some ways having it out in the open was a relief, but he'd been planning to tell Sam _properly_. He'd screwed it up with Dean, he knew that, but that was unavoidable – Dean had had to grow up fast so Sam could stay a kid for a bit longer – and that was a price that Dean had been more than willing to pay, and John as well. And it was probably bad parenting and definitely selfish, but it had worked. Until now, at least.

"Is it true?" Sam had asked, but the waver in his voice told John that Dean had been through this with Sam already, that John couldn't tell Sam anything he didn't already know.

But because Sam needed to hear it, he had said "Yes, son. It's true," and he had heard the curtness in his own voice, and by the look on Sam's face he knew that Sam probably thought he was about to be punished.

And he should have torn Sam a new one for going through his things, for taking his journal, for no doubt pestering Dean until he cracked – but all he could think about was Sam learning the truth about how Mary died - Sam learning how his mother had been ripped apart above him, finding out from those few terse sentences in his own cramped handwriting, and all he said was "Go to bed, son. We can talk about it in the morning."

Of course, they never did. It had been three years since that night, but John still thought about it sometimes – but never for long, because the memory of the look in Sam's eyes still burned him, twisting him up inside, even years later.

*  
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	7. Answers

It had been a couple of days since the accident, and things had mostly settled down at home.

Dad had yelled plenty when they'd gotten home from the hospital – given Sam a lecture about going off without telling anyone, given Dean a lecture for not keeping an eye on Sam.

Dean said Dad was mad because he'd been scared, but Sam didn't know. Seemed like Dad was pretty much just mad. Besides, Dean was always saying Dad never got scared.

Dean said a lot of things, and Sam was starting to wonder if he should believe them, wondered sometimes if even _Dean_ believed them.

Dean had been mad too, at first, but Sam knew that was because he had been worried. Besides, Sam knew he deserved it. Dean had been more mad about Mrs Wesley coming to their home and everything. "Do you want to have to move again, Sam?" Dean had shouted. "Is that what you want?" And Sam shook his head, because no, that wasn't what he wanted, not at all, and tears were prickling at his eyes.

He blinked them away so Dean wouldn't see, but somehow Dean knew anyway, because Dean gave him a pat on the back and left him for a few minutes, until Sam started to feel a bit better, and then Dean came back armed with a black marker, and spent the next half hour drawing all over Sam's cast, until every inch of it was covered – he wrote everything he could think of - his signature, stick figures, song lyrics, random shapes and designs. He'd even scribbled something on Sam's elbow that Sam couldn't see, no matter how much he craned his neck around.

He'd asked Nate what it said, but after Nate read it, he just sniggered and refused to explain what he was laughing at.

Sam had tried looking with a mirror, but the writing was tiny and it was angled in just the wrong position for him to read.

After Nate had stopped laughing, he had sighed. "Your brother didn't leave any room for me to write on your cast," he said.

Sam wondered what Nate would have written. He'd never know, though, because Nate was right. Dean hadn't left room for anyone else.

*

Carl was out back in the workshop, so John was manning the front counter when a woman walked in. She looked around a bit uncertainly – the way she was dressed, it was pretty obvious she didn't come to a garage very often.

"Can I help you, Ma'am?" asked John.

"Yes," she said. "My name's Elizabeth Myers, I'm here to collect my car."

"You're Nate's mom," John said, as it suddenly clicked.

"Yes," she said, a bit wary, and then, with sudden realization – "Oh, of course. You must be Sammy's father. He did tell me you worked at the garage, I'm sorry, it just slipped my mind."

She held out her hand, and John shook it, feeling clumsy and awkward. She smiled brightly at him as he handed her the keys.

"There you go," he said. "Should be good as new."

"Thank you," she beamed. "I'm so glad you had it ready – Nate's birthday party is this afternoon, and I was worried I wouldn't have my car back by then."

"Not a problem," John said, awkward in the face of such gratitude.

She picked up a paper bag sitting on the back seat.

"Actually," she said, "now that I've run into you - can you give this to Sam? He left it in the car after the accident. I'm so sorry about that, by the way, I had to stay at the scene to work out insurance details, and by the time I'd got to the hospital you'd already picked up Sam. I tried to call to explain, but Nate didn't have Sam's number," and she cut herself off with a laugh, "I'm sorry, I'm rambling on, and I'm running late to pick up the boys from school."

"I'll give this to Sam," said John.

She honked the horn as she waved goodbye.

"Was that Elizabeth Myers?" Carl asked, emerging from the workshop at the sound of the horn.

"Yeah," said John. "She seems a nice lady. Real grateful you got the car fixed in time for her kid's party."

Carl grinned. "Nate's a great kid," he said. "They're such a happy family. Bit of a miracle that he's still alive as well, considering how sick he was as a tyke."

"What do you mean?" asked John, absently feeling the paper bag Elizabeth Myers had left for Sam. Without even opening it, he knew what was in it. John had been the one to help Sam start his collection, years ago – another little tradition to try and help Sam adjust to the idea of life on the road - but like most of John's good intentions he'd left it by the wayside years ago, and it had been Dean who had continued reminding him to get a postcard, even (John had his suspicions) pocketing them himself from unsuspecting newsagents when money was tight.

"Kid was born with a hole in his heart, or something. Got real sick just before his first birthday, in hospital in the Intensive Care Unit. Local church was having prayer vigils every night, Elizabeth was a wreck – we all knew it was just a matter of time. But then he was suddenly better – doctors said they'd never seen anything like it."

John shrugged uncomfortably. Stories of miracles always made him nervous, because he'd seen a lot of things he couldn't explain, but they were very rarely good things.

*

"Please, Dean," Sam begged, and Dean knew he'd kick himself for it later, and Dad would probably yell at him, but all he could see was the cast on Sam's arm, and at least the kid had learnt his lesson and was asking now, instead of just taking off. Besides, surely a broken arm was enough punishment – and Dad had been really hard on Sam.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

*

Something was digging into John's hip as he sat down in the driver's seat. He reached a hand around and realized he'd left Sam's postcard in his jacket pocket. He wondered what picture Sam had chosen this time, and – curious - found himself sliding it out of the bag, glossy beneath his fingertips.

It was a photo of the Indiana state flag, with the motto scrawled underneath. "Indiana: Crossroads of America," it read, and John's hand was shaking as he pulled out the map and started searching, because the pieces were falling into place, but he didn't like the picture that was forming, not at all.

He drove to the nearest crossroads as quickly as he could. He wasn't even sure if this would work – Bobby would know, but although he'd been dialing Bobby's number the whole way there, it just rang out. Hell of a time for the stubborn coot to take a holiday.

It didn't matter though, because no sooner than he got out of the car, she spoke.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," she said.

John turned around to see a blonde woman in a black dress. She didn't look exactly like Mary, but the resemblance was still close enough to make John uncomfortable.

"Please John, be polite. I'm doing you a favor, showing up like this. Normally, people have to jump through hoops to see me– the bones of a black cat, graveyard dirt – a bit primitive, perhaps, but effective nonetheless."

"I didn't come here to chat," John interrupted, and she glared at him.

"I know exactly why you came here, John Winchester," and he shouldn't be surprised that she knew his name, because he had already guessed what he was dealing with here, but it still came as a shock to hear his name spat with such vehemence from a complete stranger. "You probably came here with some chivalrous notion of getting Elizabeth Myers out of her deal. And I bet you don't even have a clue how to go about it, but you're going to try anyway. Sound about right, John?"

When she put it like that, it did sound pretty stupid – but considering she'd pretty much read his mind, John couldn't really argue.

"You're too late," she said. "Elizabeth Myers was released from her deal the day you moved to Indiana."

"What?" asked John, genuinely bewildered – because he hadn't had much to do with crossroads demons before, but he knew that they never willingly reneged on a deal – they had to be well and truly trapped before they would even begin negotiations, and even then they were cunning, always looking for loopholes and double-crosses and ways to screw you over.

"You heard me. Let me make this clear for you before we go any further, alright, John? I don't like hunters, and I don't like you."

"Then why are you helping me?" John asked, between gritted teeth.

"Because there's someone I hate more than you," she hissed. "Someone who ruined _everything_. Snatched that tasty soul right out from under us, isn't that right, sweetums?"

She laughed as she saw the expression on John's face. "Relax, John, I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to them. Can't you see them?"

And John suddenly could, watching in horror as the shadows at his feet coalesced into inky black shapes, slinking and prowling in predatory circles around his legs. They were lean, leaner than any black dog; and there was fire in their eyes and death in their razor-sharp teeth. "Yes," she said. "These are what killed that cop – he hit his wife, you know. They were getting hungry, waiting for Elizabeth's time to be up, so I thought I'd give them a little snack. But that all changed a few weeks ago, when Elizabeth Myers sold her soul to a higher bidder, even though she knew her soul wasn't hers to sell. Of course, the new deal was conditional on luring you here to Indiana, but you were so predictable, chasing rumors of cold spells and omens all the way here. He's smart, you know. And he knows you. Unfortunately, he really messed with my plans, because Elizabeth Myers soul was mine. And now everything is out of control. You see, they were supposed to get a gourmet feast on Elizabeth Myers soul, and instead they've had to settle for scraps of souls destined for hell anyway – but just a bite, never the whole thing. This is personal now. He ruined my deal? I'm going to ruin his. That's where you come in, John."

These were hell hounds. By all the lore he has read, they are only ever visible to those about to die, so maybe he should be more scared than he was – but John was not afraid. If she wanted to kill him, he would be dead already. Besides, this was a game, really – there were rules, and he'd followed them all, so far. She wanted to use him, he knew that now, and he was of far more use to her dead than alive.

"A war is coming, John," she sing-songed. "You can taste it, can't you; you can feel it in your bones. You _know_, but you don't know enough, you don't know it all. You need to find Sam, John. He's in danger."

As soon as she mentioned Sam, John was already making for the car, before she had even finished talking - turning his back and striding away with sure and steady footsteps, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. She started to sing softly as he walked away. Her voice was clear and sweet, but her words were sharp and deadly - "She's sleeping there, my angel, Mary dear, I loved her, but she thought I didn't mean it, still I'd give my future were she only here…"

The words, the tune, were familiar somehow, although he couldn't quite place it; and her words were calculated to hurt, and John whirled around - because how dare she say Mary's name, how _dare_ she – but the crossroads were deserted once again, lit only by a pale sliver of moonlight escaping from behind the clouds.

*

"Where's Sam?" demanded John, as soon as he walked through the doorway.

Dean glanced up from where he was seated in front of the television. "I told him he could sleep over at Nate's house."

"You told him _what_?" John barked.

Dean switched off the tv, and stood to face John. "I told him he could sleep over at Nate's house after the party. So what? He's been talking about it all week, asking you if he could, and you never said yes, but you never said no, either. Besides, its Nate's birthday and Mrs Myers came by to pick them up from school specially. Apparently that's all Nate wanted for his birthday – for Sam to sleep over. Besides, how was I to even know you were going to come home tonight, huh?"

John unconsciously curled his hands into fists, because he thought perhaps he understood now, but he had to be sure. "Dean," he said slowly. "Nate… how old is he?"

"He just turned eleven," replied Dean automatically. "He's a few months older than Sammy. And – wait, Dad what's going on?"

John was already grabbing the rifle, making plans and backups in case the plans went wrong, calculating how cold it was and how small Sammy was, and he was so caught up in that that he didn't even realize Dean was yelling at him until he felt him grab his arm, slowing him down.

John shrugged out of Dean's grip because he needed to get going, needed to be on the road to find Sam, but the words Dean had been yelling finally sunk in, as Dean repeated "Dad, Dad, just tell me what the hell is going on," and Dean's face was so worried that John had to say _something_, so he said it as bluntly as possible.

"It's Nate's mom, son. She's going to hurt Sam."

"Dad… I didn't know. I swear – I didn't know!"

And John cut him off with a curt hand gesture, because they didn't have time for guilt – and _of_ _course_ John didn't think Dean had sent Sam into danger _on purpose_. But that didn't change the fact that Sam was off somewhere with a woman who a decade ago had done whatever it took to keep her son alive - and John knew all about keeping sons alive, he'd been doing it for the past fifteen years and he didn't plan on stopping now.

*

Dad was humming something under his breath – which was so unlike Dad – and Dean recognized the tune, and despite the circumstances, he had to bite back a laugh. "Hell of a time to get patriotic, Dad," he said.

"What?" asked Dad, distracted.

"That song. We had to listen to it in school. C'mon, you must have heard it on tv or something– state song of Indiana? 'On the banks of the Wabash, far away'?"

Dad froze - and then unfroze and was halfway to the Impala before Dean realized he was even moving. Dean raced to catch up, jumping in and shutting the door just as Dad peeled away from the curb with an almighty screech.

"Where are we going, Dad?" asked Dean, as they drove, the car thrumming like a mad thing beneath them. Dean was tense, uptight and jumpy, responding to the tension he could feel pouring off Dad in waves.

"To the river," answered Dad grimly, "the Wabash river," and he pushed the accelerator down even further as the Impala sped forward into the night, headlights piercing the fathomless darkness.

*

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	8. Endings

They parked the car at the lookout, at the national park – because it was a start, follow the river, that was all John could think, follow the river, so he would.

And then he recognized the other car parked at the lookout, and it was the first lucky break he'd caught tonight, because they were in the right place, and hopefully he wouldn't be too late.

*

While Dad was grabbing his gun, jamming it into the back of his jeans, Dean walked around the Myers' car – stopping short when he realized Nate was sitting in there, peering out at him with wide eyes.

"Dad," he hissed.

Dad looked up, serious and fierce, and if Sam was here and could see the look in Dad's eyes right now, he'd never ask Dean if Dad loved them, wouldn't need to.

"It's Nate," he whispered. "He's still in the car," and the car door was locked but Dad jimmied it open with a bit of wire. Nate watched him the whole time, but when Dad finally got the door unlocked Nate opened his mouth and was about to start screaming but Dad was faster – clapping his palm over Nate's mouth, and hauling him out of the car.

Dean didn't think Nate's eyes could get any wider, but then Dad pulled out the gun and held it up so Nate got a good long look at it – and Dean had known Dad ever since he was born, wasn't scared of him in the slightest, but in that moment he almost was, so he knew Nate must be terrified.

"Now," Dad said, in a voice that Dean had never heard before, "I'm going to take my hand away and then you're going to tell me where Sam is."

Nate nodded quickly.

"Where's Sam?" Dad said.

Nate had been crying, Dean realized. There was a crust of snot around his nose, and his eyes were red and blotchy.

When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. "I don't know," he said. "Mom told me to wait in the car, and keep the door locked."

"Where did she take Sam?" Dean cut in, and Nate's eyes darted towards him, and then away.

"I don't know where she was taking him," he said. "But they went that way." He pointed off into the distance, and through the dim light Dean could make out a path that cut between the trees.

"What else?" Dad said, and there was steel in his voice, as clear a threat as any.

"She was acting weird," said Nate. "Sam, too. I thought he was going to throw up or something. And next thing I know we're here, and she told me to wait in the car. What's going on?"

Dad didn't answer, just got a firm grip on Nate's shoulders and kept him in front of him, and they walked in silence. Dean followed, keeping an eye out for any sign of Sam.

They walked for ten minutes, and then finally Dean heard a sound – except he wished he hadn't, because it was the sound of Sam screaming.

Dad motioned him to stay put, and Dean obeyed, even though every muscle in his body wanted to race over to Sam; but he knew that Dad didn't need anything else distracting him right now.

*

John rounded the corner with Nate held tight to his chest, gun cozy next to Nate's temple.

Elizabeth Myers was standing at the riverbank - she was facing him, holding Sam. Sam was not putting up a fight at all. He looked dazed, eyes unnaturally wide. John belatedly remembered Sam mentioning that Nate's mom worked in a pharmacy, probably had access to all kinds of drugs. Sam looked as if he'd been given a strong dose of _something_, otherwise there was no way he'd be just standing there, so limp and unresisting, as she held that knife to his throat. They were standing on a small precipice above the river.

"Stay away. Don't come any closer," she warned.

"Alright, alright," John said, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, and hoping to hell that Dean had stayed on look-out where he had told him, because the last thing he needed was Dean bursting out and doing something rash. John was normally all for rash, ill-thought out and hasty moves – but this was a fucking knife at his ten year old kid's throat – this called for some basic understanding of the situation, at least.

"You can't hurt Sam," John said. "Because if you do, I'll kill Nate." John pressed the muzzle of his gun closer to Nate's temple, could feel Nate bucking beneath his grip. John held on even tighter.

"You won't do it," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "He told me you won't," and she pressed the point of her knife to Sam's throat, drawing a drop of blood that looked obscene against Sam's pale skin. The cut wasn't deep enough to cause any damage – just a nick, but John found it hard to rationalize away a knife that close to his kid's carotid artery.

"Who said I won't? Who told you that, because lady, whoever told you that is a liar, do you understand me?"

"The man with the yellow eyes," she said, and John didn't know who the hell she was talking about, but her words sent shivers running straight down his spine, because nothing _good_ had yellow eyes, nothing that should live.

"You can't hurt Sam." John repeated. "The only reason you're doing this is for Nate. You lay a finger on my son, and I will _destroy_ yours."

"You certainly do have me at a disadvantage, John. But you see, you've made one mistake." She looked straight at him, and as her eyes flickered to black John realized with sudden horror that Nate was no longer a bargaining chip that held any sway, no longer a bargaining chip at all, because he wasn't dealing with Elizabeth Myers anymore– this was something older and darker and primal.

He tried to drop Nate and rush towards Sam but he couldn't move, not an inch. Something otherworldly was pinning him in place.

"This child," she intoned, as she stared at Sam – and her voice had changed, as well, become deeper, more of a lilt to it. Sam wasn't struggling anymore. There was a thin line of blood trickling down his right cheek, and when he stared across the river bank at John there was a feral sort of terror in his eyes. "It wasn't just Mary that you lost that night, John. You lost little Sammy too – or at least, the most important parts of him. Baptized in blood, purified by fire – such a _special_ boy, but you already know that, don't you John?"

She paused, then, to look at him closely – and laughed. "But you _didn't_ know!" she exclaimed delightedly. "I've heard what they say about you, John, but I'd never have believed you were actually as stupid as you looked."

"He wants his son back too, you know," she said, and pushed Sam into the river.

*

Dean had crept up close, mindful not to be seen. He could hear Dad and Mrs Myers arguing, but he couldn't really focus on anything except the knife that bitch was pointing at Sammy's throat.

His world had narrowed to the roar of the river, its rhythm pounding in his veins, and so when he saw Sam tumble in it was instinct to follow, diving in after him smooth and clean. The current was strong, but Dean had always been a good swimmer. Sam could hold his own, but even with all Dad's training he was still just a ten year old kid – a kid with a broken arm, Dean reminded himself, and he had thought he was already swimming as fast as he could but he found himself swimming even faster, towards the last place he'd seen Sammy.

The river was a raging thing, and the water was black and the sky was black and the only way Dean could tell which was up was that the water was beneath, the water was _freezing_. And somewhere in the midst of it was Sam.

*

The shock of the icy water woke Sam up a bit, made him more alert, although his head still felt muzzy from whatever Mrs Myers had given him.

He tried to strike out in the direction he thought the riverbank was, but he couldn't break away from the current. And then he felt a sharp crack as his head struck something solid, and his world become pain and then – nothing.

*

John raced to the river's edge, straining to make out any glimpse of his sons under the pale moonlight.

The river was churning up water so strongly that he couldn't see clearly – every few seconds, he caught a flash of what he thought was Dean, but could have just been wishful thinking.

Every instinct screamed at him to leap in there after them, but he knew that he would be no good to his sons if he was in there too, adding to the chaos. Here, he could help them as soon as they broke the surface. Besides, Dean could handle this. He'd stake his life on it – _was_ staking his life on it, because his life was wrapped up in his sons, and now he had to rely on one to save the other.

Dean would save Sam – they'd done water rescue drills before – certainly never in such adverse conditions, but Dean would never let anything bad happen to Sam, not if he was close enough to save him.

That's what John kept telling himself – "Dean will save him," – but it wasn't until Dean's head emerged above the water, struggling to hold onto Sam's limp form, that he knew it for sure.

John waded into the river to retrieve Sam from Dean's arms, but Dean resisted, refusing to let go; so John ended up carrying both of his sons into shore.

*

He could taste the river, still felt buffeted by the waves, but stronger than the pull of the current was the sound of a familiar voice, and the feel of an arm around his shoulders – the steady litany of "easy Sammy, easy, just open your eyes, can you do that for me, kiddo?" and Sam half-opened his eyes, and he saw Dad kneeling over him, forehead creased with concern.

"How you feeling, kiddo?" asked Dad, and Sam wanted to say he felt a lot better now than he had all night – despite his splitting headache – but then he opened his eyes the whole way, and saw Nate lying on the snow, pale as death, and Mrs Myers weeping over him.

So instead, all he said was "Dean?" and it was more of a question, a plea delivered in a thin voice that sounded nothing like his own, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest and suddenly he couldn't breathe, not until he saw Dean in front of him.

*

John hugged Sammy tight to his chest, tight enough to count every one of Sam's ribs, his fingers, his toes. They were all there, but instead of letting go he clung on even tighter.

And he kept replaying that split-second right after Sam went into the water, because there had been a moment where he could move again, right before Dean had dived in – and he wanted to say that he had hesitated because he knew Dean could handle it, but really it was because those few cryptic words were the closest thing to a lead on Mary's killer he'd had in months.

"He's not yours, John. Not anymore." That was what she had said, and then a cloud of black smoke had poured from her mouth, and she collapsed in a heap onto the snow. In the same instant, Nate had slumped to the ground – his body convulsing – and then stilled.

John wondered what it would be like to lose a son, wondered if what that _thing _inside Elizabeth Myers had said was true, whether he had already lost his son years ago – but as he felt Sam's heartbeat through his thin t-shirt it was hard to really believe anything was lost that could not be found again, and the panic and confusion her words had caused were swept away by his sheer relief that Sam was alive.

*

Dean was there, was there as soon as Sammy called his name, he was kneeling down in front of him, touching his icy cheek, grabbing tight to his wrists, running shaky hands through wet hair. Dean felt like he should be cold, too, as cold as Sam – after all, they'd been in the river about the same amount of time, but Dean was burning up from the inside, adrenaline and exhaustion at an impasse, but exhaustion was winning. Dean loosed his hold on Sam, and lay back on the icy riverbank, breathing in enormous gulps of air, each one a testament and a confession and a benediction beginning and ending with _thank you_.

He wasn't praying – he hadn't prayed since he was four years old – so he's not quite sure who he's thanking, but in that moment he was just so damn grateful to anyone and everything because Sam was alive, he's alive, and Dean saved him, Dean didn't screw up, and Sam was alive. And if that's not something to be thankful for, Dean didn't know what was

*

Elizabeth Myers didn't look bright or bubbly anymore. Her mascara was running, inky black rivulets beneath her eyes. She was sitting on the ground next to Nate's body. "He's gone," she said.

"Yes," John said. "He is."

She suddenly lunged at him, hysterical. "You killed him," she screamed. "You killed my baby!"

_No_, John thought, _I didn't_ – _even though you nearly killed mine_. Except he can't judge, because he can't say that he wouldn't have done the same in her place. He fights evil every day, sure, but that doesn't automatically make him one of the good guys. John Winchester is not nor will he ever be a saint, not by any stretch of the imagination, and there are not many lines that he hasn't crossed; or wouldn't cross for his sons, and the line between right and wrong recedes more and more with every passing day.

He laid his hand over Nate's face and gently pulled the kid's eyes closed so his mom won't have to look at them. It was the only scrap of kindness he could spare, because he was wrung out and not sure how to separate Elizabeth Myers from what that _thing _inside her nearly did to Sam; so he wasn't surprised when he realized that he couldn't – because the hand covering her face as she wept was the same hand that a few minutes ago was holding a fucking knife to his ten year old kid's throat.

He didn't say a word, just scooped up Sam and started walking to the car. He didn't need to look back to know that Dean was following right behind him.

*

Dad pulled up outside their house, and Dean jumped out of the back seat, coaxing Sam out. Sam was swathed in an old blanket Dad had pulled from the trunk, and he still looked dazed, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was or what was going on. Dean steadied him, wrapping his arm around Sam's thin shoulder.

Then he realized that Dad was still sitting in the driver's seat, hands clenched around the steering wheel. The Impala's engine was still running, sending puffs of smoke out into the frigid night air.

"Dad?" he said.

"Take Sam inside, Dean. I'll be back in a few hours, and while I'm gone I need you to pack up the house, son, because as soon as I get back we need to leave, right away, do you understand me?"

Dad's voice sounded strange, but everything about tonight had been strange, so Dean wasn't about to question it. Dean nodded, mutely. He was tired, so tired, but leaving sounded about the best idea he'd ever heard. He couldn't wait to get out of here, to get Sam out of this place, to put as many miles as they could between them and Huntington, Indiana.

*

She was waiting for him, when he comes back to the crossroads.

"What was the point of it?" John said. "Why did that _thing _try to kill Sammy?"

She smiled. "I would tell you, John, but it doesn't matter. That's not what you really came to ask me, is it? You want to know if it's true, what that thing said about Sammy, don't you?"

And John found himself nodding.

"It is," she said. "Everything it told you is true. The man with the yellow eyes? His name is Azazel, he's the one that killed Mary, the one that changed little Sammy. He's the one."

This was it - the first solid lead he's had in weeks, months, years – and he could barely breathe through his all-consuming desire for vengeance, but he somehow managed to rasp out "Tell me how to find him,"; but she was already shaking her head.

"If you care anything at all about your sons – either one of them – you need to stay as far away from him as you can. Do whatever it takes. He can't find you, not yet. You're not ready to face him, and if you try to seek him out, you may as well hand Sam over to him right now."

And John felt his world shattering around him, crystallizing into determination. Revenge is what has been fuelling him for the past decade, but as much as he still wants vengeance, he _needs_ his sons, safe and whole.

"I can help you, though," she said eagerly. The dawn was a faint smear on the horizon, framing her blonde hair like a flaming halo, and suddenly she didn't seem so much of a threat.

"You couldn't stop him tonight," John said, somewhat bitterly, because throughout this whole conversation, not a moment has gone by that he hasn't watched as Sam falls in slow motion into that raging river, again and again and again – and this time there is no Dean to save him.

She flushes. "I wasn't ready," she said. "You don't understand how powerful he is. He took me by surprise, took all of us by surprise. But I'm prepared now. I can stop him – there's a whole army of us, one for every crossroads, and we can stop him, hold him off long enough for you to get away, get ready."

John didn't want to, but he had to ask. "Ready for what?"

"War," she said, showing her teeth as she smiled, and her lipstick was the color of blood. "War, of course. You're training for it already, training them for it – but you're not ready, none of you. You need more time. I can give you more time."

"I don't want what you're selling, lady," John gritted out.

"Really?" she said. "That surprises me. I thought you'd want to keep your boys alive."

"I know better than to make a deal with a demon. Didn't work out that well for Elizabeth Myers, did it?" John taunted.

She looked angry at the mention of Elizabeth. _"He_ did that," she said. "Not me. If it were up to me, Nate would still be alive – just like I promised. Elizabeth didn't offer up anything she wasn't willing to lose, but then _he _came, offering her a loophole if she could bring Sam to him. I only took Nate back because Elizabeth broke her end of the bargain – I couldn't get her soul – _he _stopped me, so I took Nate's soul back. But you can breathe easy, John, I'm not after your soul – messy twisted little thing that it is," she said, stepping closer.

"What about the whole dragging me to hell in ten years thing?" John said, and he hated the fact that he could hear the fear in his own voice, could feel the tremors as his hands shook from nervous tension.

She laughed. "Ten years from now you will be in hell, John – but you'll still be above ground. You've been in your own private hell for the past ten years, anyway. No need to move now."

John felt his shoulders relax, somewhat.

"I'm not even asking for your soul," she continued. "Or at least, not all of it – you'll barely even notice what I take. I just want a little taste, just enough to make you dangerous. Trust me John, I'm doing you a favor. Ten years is a long time – almost a lifetime - ten years of peace – you can teach Sam all he needs to know to survive. But after that, he's on his own. I can only hide him for so long. Even now, his power is growing stronger."

"Why are you doing this?" asked John, because there was always a catch, always - a demon was still a demon, and there was no way in hell she was doing this out of the kindness of her heart.

"Isn't it obvious?" she retorted. "I hate him. He stole a _soul_ from me. Elizabeth Myers soul was rightfully mine, and he took it."

_And you took Nate's in return,_ John thought, but didn't say.

"Do you really hate him that much?" asked John.

Her eyes flashed in indignation as she replied, "Yes, don't you?" and John does, he does. And a demon is still a demon, but desperate times call for desperate measures and the enemy of my enemy is my friend and John would sell his soul to save his son, except turns out he doesn't need to, because the kiss is chaste, and there's no taste of hellfire or sulphur, no spark, no feeling of a mystical contract being written. He does feel clearer, more determined, but it's nothing that wasn't there before, it's just been enhanced, somehow.

"Sealed with a kiss – just habit," she said, as she licked her lips. "You get all the benefits without any of those messy consequences. You don't know how lucky you are, John. This is the first time in a millennium I've been this generous."

John didn't thank her, because you don't thank a demon – but he also didn't exorcise her, so he supposed that's a kind of thank you, in a fucked-up sort of way.

Bobby Singer would kick his ass if he knew John was walking away from a crossroads demon without even _trying_ to send it back to the hell it crawled out of – and perhaps Bobby would have a point, because normally John would be fighting with everything he's got, because he's a stupid reckless bastard (to quote Bobby, again) and he's never backed down from a fight in his life.

But there's a first time for everything, after all.

*

Sam was lying on the couch, fast asleep. Dean was sitting next to him, tired but watchful. There was a thick blanket covering Sam – enveloping him so that only the top of his head was visible. Dean's doing, no doubt.

John looked at them, his boys.

When Dean saw him, he moved as if to get up, and John said "Stay there, you'll wake Sam," and that was enough to make Dean stay put, sitting silently next to Sam as John made the trip back and forth between the rooms, checking to make sure they haven't forgotten anything.

Dean had done a good job of getting their stuff together, so John just had to assemble the last few things. He'd gotten to be somewhat of an expert at packing up quickly, leaving behind no trace of himself or his family – and that's probably not something he should be proud of, but it was a fact. When the car was finally loaded, he ushered Dean out, picking up Sam as if he was still a baby – and even though Sam was ten, he was not a burden to carry, looking even smaller and more fragile in sleep.

Dean opened the door to the backseat and slid in, reaching out his arms for John to pass Sam. Dean usually sat in the front seat, but John understood why he was choosing to sit with Sam tonight, because nothing about tonight was usual, nothing at all, he thought, as he turned the key in the ignition.

As he felt the Impala spring to life beneath his fingers, felt her heater sputtering warm air into the cold pre-dawn, he corrected himself. Almost nothing about tonight was usual, but some things never change, and the reassuring purr of the Impala was one of them – a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

He'd been losing for so long that he'd forgotten what winning felt like; but as he looked at Dean in the backseat, huddled around his brother, John felt a feeling not unlike victory blooming in his chest. It wasn't winning, he knew that; but it wasn't losing either – and for now, that was all that mattered.

They hadn't lost Sam, not this time.

*

They drove for twelve hours straight, dawn blending into day blending into dusk. They stopped at a McDonalds for dinner. Sam wanted to stay in the car but Dean wouldn't let him, shepherding him inside, nudging shoulders with him at every step.

Sam walked straight to the bathroom, threw up, and then walked back out. Dean would have followed him, but Dad said "Let him go, son," and so Sam sat on the hood of the Impala by himself until Dad and Dean came back out. Dad looked angry. Dean was shivering, and Sam wondered why he wasn't wearing the jacket Sam had bought him for his birthday – and then Sam realized it was wrapped around his own shoulders, and he wondered when that had happened, why he hadn't noticed.

He thought maybe he should give it back to Dean, because Sam didn't ever think he would be warm again, no matter how many jackets or blankets he wore. He was cold someplace deep inside, someplace nobody could fix.

*

Sam hadn't said a word since last night, and Dean knew it was making Dad nervous. For once, he didn't care about Dad's reaction. He was too busy worrying about Sam. Because Sam hadn't said a single word in the past eighteen hours, nothing since that broken "Dean?" on the riverbank.

He sneaked a glance across at Sam. Normally, Dean rode shotgun up front with Dad, leaving Sam the whole backseat to sprawl out on, but Dean wasn't letting Sam any further away than he could help it, not after last night.

He'd tried to sleep, he had – and it's not that he wasn't tired, because he was – he was bone-weary, exhausted through and through. It's just that every time he closed his eyes he was back in that river, searching for Sam – except he was never fast enough, never strong enough, never good enough – and he jerked awake and the first thing he did was look over at Sam, to reassure himself that he wasn't a complete screw-up, that maybe Dad could forgive him for letting him down – again.

Dad hadn't said that this was all Dean's fault. He didn't need to. Dean knew that he had made a mess of this – Sam had got hurt, Sam had nearly _died_ – Sam's best friend _had_ died – and if Dean hadn't defied Dad's orders, none of this would have happened.

Sam was alive –there was that, at least. But Sam still wasn't talking, and he looked so small and defeated, scrunched up in his corner of the backseat, broken arm clutched tight to his chest. His eyes were closed, but Dean knew he wasn't asleep. Sam had never been able to fool Dean.

They drove on, and on, and on and Dean was so busy worrying about Sam that he wasn't really paying attention to where they were going, so he was surprised when the car came to a stop, and he looked up and they were in a motel parking lot.

It looked the same as every other motel parking lot – dingy concrete slab, nondescript wooden doors, lurid neon sign.

Different tune, same old song.

Dad opened the door and then paused, swinging around to face them in the back seat.

"Who are we today, Sam?" asked Dad, and Dean wasn't surprised when Sam didn't answer - just slouched in his seat and stared out the window into the night sky. They were close to the city, so there were no stars – just blackness – and Dean wondered what Sam was looking at so intently. Or maybe he was just not looking at Dad.

"Sammy?" asked Dad, and his voice was quieter this time. He sounded almost as tired as Sam looked; as tired as Dean felt.

Sam turned his head away. "Dean can have my turn," he said. "I don't want to play anymore."

* * *


End file.
